


A Potential Improvement in Habits

by iniquiticity



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Begging, Light BDSM, M/M, Praise Kink, Spanking, the tense changes are here and they are angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: The heir to the fortune of the company you're pitching to is not generally the man you expect to show up at the bondage club.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fickle_Obsessions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/gifts).



> Belated birthday present for the incredible Fickle, who from her incredible amazing AUs (likethe one where this fic is set) to her extraordinary caretaking, and fabulous advice, and genius plotting, and incredible porn, has been a brilliant spot of sunlight in my life. 
> 
> This is marginally sent with the same George as from [your affliction leaves me wanting more](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072506) although it isn't necessarily canon and probably takes place a lot earlier. by the way it's hard to explain how good that fic is and i can't tell you enough to read it.

When George enters the bid room, last, he immediately feels the disturbed change in it. He has a lot of skills, he likes to think, but one of his best is feeling the room, and right now he feels the shock in it, everyone confused and upset. He glances first at his team: Billy Lee setting up the projector, talking in a low voice to Deb Sampson and Henry Knox, the three of them all glancing back at him. His team seems unsettled but not catastrophic, which is good enough; He does most of the talking anyway. But none of his team looks different. 

It's obvious, though, when he turns to the executives that will watch the bid. There were four of them, not all equally sternfaced and dour. Although they all pretend at straight faces, George knows when his ideas and his company is liked. They've been doing pretty well. 

The fifth is new and deserves the unsettledness of the room. Perhaps, even, the unsettledness does not even match the man who has caused it. Young, first of all, closer to Billy's age than any of them - George pegs him at 28, maybe 33. But his age is not the only thing that makes him so unusual. First there's the wealth that emits from him like a signal - none of them are hurting for money but the new man outclasses them without effort, even from here the quality of fabric of the suit, along with the flattering custom cut of it, screams out how much money he has to burn. Even without the suit, there's the round, crystal-laden face of the watch at his wrist, and the gleaming cufflinks that hold his suit sleeves. A perfect pocket square is folded at his breastbone. What intrigues George the most is that the man doesn't wear a tie, two buttons of his suit and his shirt open. It's that his eyes are accentuated and his jaw made the perfect shape and his cheekbones made high. The man is not only young and rich but he's wearing makeup that accentuates his features in a way that, while not quite feminine, is certainly striking. 

He and the man size each other up in an instant. Despite the man's make-up his eyes are hard and there's a drawn, serious line to his lips that are colored just a shade past perfectly natural. 

George can admit a man is beautiful in such a context and not let it distract him, and in such a case there is nothing he can do other than just that. 

He sweeps over to Knox, Sampson and Lee. Lee goes to put his hands in his pockets, but a quick glare from Knox gets him folding them behind his back, as he should, instead. 

Knox leans over. "Gilbert du Motier," he says, low, into George’s ear.

Oh. 

The heir apparent to the operation, then. The wealth makes sense now, given the billion-dollar profits. Though George has heard from the grapevine that this very son is more than running the operation, even if his father is nominally and officially in charge. Now he knows why the other executives keep looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. du Motier speaks to them in low, quick French. George curses picking Lee instead of Laurens as their assistant; he knows Laurens speaks the language well enough. That's what he gets for trying to be diverse. 

"We are extremely honored to be hosting Mr. du Motier for the presentation. He is in the country on business and has thought should learn more about the day-to-day operations," says Rochambeau, the head of the team. 

"We are honored to have him here, and look forward to presenting our best work to someone who is certainly the best judge," Knox says. du Motier smiles, his white teeth radiant, and George thinks again, as distantly as possible, how almost impossibly handsome he is.

"I am glad to be attend," du Motier says, in a thick accent. George is instantly skeptical; there's no way the man hasn't been taught English and likely Chinese. But he could hardly hold it against someone else to pretend something about themselves. 

"We shouldn't require any additional instruction or context, Mr. du Motier has already been informed of all the previous details regarding the bid. So, please carry on as you would as usual." d’Estaing this time, gesturing as he speaks. 

Sampson nods, and starts the presentation; she's always been amazing at introductions. From there the presentation runs perfectly smoothly, the way that looks not over-practiced but still very well informed. The executives ask questions his team knows the answers to, and they even manage to get a few laughs out of the dry businesspeople. The real issue is that du Motier is completely stonefaced the whole time. His beauty is marble. He doesn't twitch once, doesn't give away his feelings, doesn't ask any questions, doesn't crack a smile or a frown. His employees make a dedicated, but ultimately failing, attempt to pretend they don't know how they feel about this. So one hand George has just put on one of the best presentations of his life and even made d'Estaing laugh; on the other hand the owner of the company has spent the whole time doing a fantastic impersonation of the cover of Vogue. 

They all shake hands at the end, though. du Motier offers him the most soft, well-moisturized hand he's ever shaken in his life (nails buffed to a healthy, magnificent shine) and gives him a handshake that says _businessman_ and not _beauty king_ , and a firm sort of nod. "Good," he says, and even though they're standing close the word is bit difficult to understand, especially because the man has dropped the volume of his voice, "I think there could be more. Perhaps a..." There is another moment where he evidently struggles for the right word, "Paddling, for celebrate?"

George has a single, horribly sharp moment where he feels like he holding someone’s leash, or forgotten there’s a paddle at his waist, or something similarly obvious and impossible. "I beg your pardon?" he stumbles, unable to manage his characteristic perfect control. 

du Motier smiles that magazine-cover smile at him again, which actually does temporarily resettle him from his moment of complete and inordinate panic. "Speak to Donatien more," he says, gesturing to Rochambeau. Then the man gives him a nod obviously intended to be a dismissal, gives his own contingent a bunch of quick orders in French, and disappears. 

It is possible, he decides, that he has gone crazy and no one else heard it. Or maybe du Motier meant another word, or perhaps it was some sort of European joke he didn't get. Either way, no one else seems to have noticed, so instead they talk to the other executives for a while and finally depart. Knox breaks out his celebratory whiskey and George even has a drink, though he knows better than to deny that he's mostly brooding on being told to paddle another man in celebration. So he only has two drinks and then he goes home and reads for a while, and then after a few meandering hours pass he exchanges his work bag for the rope bag and his dress shirt for something just one-step down, and goes to his favorite rope haunt. 

He says hi to all his other regulars and makes small-talk with Friedrich while Pierre whines, strung up to the wall as he presently is. 

"Did you see the rich boy in the booth?" Friedrich says, turning to tighten one of the straps on Pierre, stretching the boy's neck longer. It's a good look. 

"No," he says, and for a moment he thinks _no fucking way_ , "What's he like?" 

"He probably has people swim in his pools of money for him," Friedrich answers, "He looked like he was looking, but then when I walked over to him he took me in and obviously I didn't make the cut, because he pretended not to speak English at me." 

He must make a face, because Friedrich looks at him. 

"Do you know him?" 

"Well," George says, and then he tells the story of du Motier and the paddling comment and the presentation, and at the end Friedrich shakes his head. 

"You have to go over and look now." 

"What if he thinks this isn't an appropriate place for someone who works for him?" 

"George," Friedrich says, completely intent, "If you miss the opportunity to paddle a billionaire out of your silly fear that you can never tell anyone about your hobbies, then that will be the end of our friendship." 

George decides against noting Friedrich's tendency to tell everyone about his hobby has gotten him fired three times, but he does look over at the indicated booth. The light is on there, but the curtain isn't closed. Perhaps he'll do some kind of subtle pass. That might allow him to escape if it really is du Motier. He is, after all, a striking character. So he gets up his courage and gives Pierre a good-luck spank and meanders over, fake-casual. 

Not only is it definitely du Motier, but also the man notices him immediately, stands up, and walks right over to him. George's heart starts to beat triple-time in his chest, but du Motier does not look aghast; instead the billionaire seems more mildly upset. Inconvenienced.

"You have made me wait for hours, Mr. Washington," du Motier says, in perfect English with a movie-perfect French accident. _Knew it_ , George thinks, in the midst of his panic. "Quite rude, to be honest. A man should not have to wait so long for his spanking." 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. du Motier?" he repeats, and feels way too much like he's back in the conference room. 

"You are just the type, you know. I knew it instantly that you could be found in a place like this on the right day. I was just very sincerely hoping you decided to appear, and appear you have, and now you may do what you like with me," du Motier offers his hand again. "And you can call me Lafayette, at least here. No one calls me by last name besides my employees." 

"Lafayette," he repeats, and tries not to drown in the complete insanity of the present situation. He shakes the hand for the second time. "George, then." 

"I would hope for 'sir' or maybe 'master'," du Motier - Lafayette - says, and smiles at him, though this smile is completely and entirely coquettish.

George takes a step back and takes a soft breath through his nose, trying to put the whole situation together. Lafayette is also dressed down from his suit in the conference room, but the shirt is still very obviously custom tailored, he's wearing a silver necklace, and the jeans are the perfect shade of raw denim. Apparently he waits just a beat too long, because Lafayette frowns at him and takes his hands out of his pockets. 

"Have I scared you, George?" Lafayette teases. "It's really your fault, you know. Even in that suit you were wearing, I could see how incredibly handsome you are. And I know, a man should try to be virtuous, but life is so short, and what sort of people are we if we do not indulge our vices? Especially, as I think, if they are complimentary."

Scared isn’t the right word, but George isn’t used to floundering, and doesn’t like how much the rug’s been pulled out from under him. He clears his throat once and crosses his arms across his chest to give himself a little more space, allowing his thoughts to settle more clearly. He’s done a lot of work to never appear out of his depth, and the old feeling doesn’t feel any better now than it ever did when he was a kid, or even just starting out in the business world. 

Lafayette, again, seems to sense that he’s taken the wrong attempt, because his lips fold down into a beautiful frown. In the low light, his makeup is even more flattering than in the conference room. No one is made nicer-looking by fluorescents. 

He takes in the scene, allowing himself a subtle glance around. He’s well-known, and Lafayette’s a stranger, and while maybe a lot of people might not know what they’re looking at, Lafayette doesn’t exactly fit into their business-casual environment. George isn’t the richest or the most wealthy person that comes here, but there’s a variety, and even so none of them have the easy confidence of always knowing you can buy yourself out of trouble. Their interaction is far from unnoticed. 

“You were just the last person I was expecting,” he answers, adding something a little defensive into his tone. Let Lafayette think he’s done the wrong thing. He probably isn’t used to that, and a little wrongfootedness might knock him a small peg. 

“But I am certainly the best option that you could have not expected.” Smug, instead of wrongfooted. That seems to be the common response. He takes a step not-quite-but-almost into George’s space, and again George fights unsettledness of it. “It is not every day, after all, that an executive VP has such an opportunity.” 

Maybe Lafayette doesn’t mean it as a jab, but it feels like one. George takes a step back in an organized retreat. He carefully manages the irritation in his stomach. “I”m sorry,” he says, properly distant, “If you’re making me a business proposition, I don’t do this for money. Furthermore, I don’t know anything about your experiences and desires, and if you did want to do a scene, I’d expect we’d start from the beginning.” 

This seems to actually upset Lafayette, because the expression he makes is utterly petulant: a man used to getting what he wants, and now. Lafayette puts his hands on his hips, and his perfectly-shaped brow creases. For a second, George almost expects him to say _But I want it!_ like a kid in a toystore. But then he gathers himself back together and his expression evens out, and smug satisfaction returns. He reaches forward and brushes some imaginary wrinkles from George’s shirt, and then begins to idly unfold and then refold up his sleeve. George thinks about pulling away, but something stops him. 

“I liked your presentation today,” Lafayette says, as he studies the creases that he makes, each sharp with practice, “It’s evident to me, at least, that you especially but also your team are very brilliant along with having good ideas and a unique approach to them. My concern is not the ideas or the passion, but the resources.” 

“Resources?” George echoes, well-aware of both the absurdity of the situation and also the importance of it. Lafayette moves to his other arm. 

“Resources,” Lafayette agrees, “I think that perhaps what would make us such good business partners is that resources is something that I do not lack. Perhaps it is only that you are not adequately funded and powered that stops you from unlocking your true potential.” He takes a step back once the work is done, studying him like a piece of art, and makes a nod to himself. Then, he reaches up and and unclasps the necklace around his neck. Before he can be stopped, he’s placing around George’s neck instead and pulling back, looking extremely pleased with himself. “See? You have the natural gifts and the work ethic for them, but what you lack is supplies. Keep it. It looks good on you.” 

“I don’t accept bribes,” he says, without thinking. There’s something uncomfortable in the air that he doesn’t like, something about the way Lafayette looks at him. He goes for the clasp of the necklace around his neck, but it’s delicate and hard to see in the low light, impossible without practice for big fingers like his. 

“How could it be a bribe, when you want to work for me?” Lafayette replies, and he gives George's elbow a little tug, trying to pull him away from his struggle with the necklace clasp. Without the jewely on, there’s just the pale expanse of Lafayette’s throat, seeming unadorned. “I shall not accept it back. It fits you better than myself, even. Makes your neck seem even broader.” 

He gives up the fight, but the wrongfootedness of the situation persists. There’s definitely a broad part of him that wants to exit the situation entirely, but it’s warred with by the fraction of his brain that says _when else do you get to paddle a billionaire?_ and even worse by the businessman in him that says _give the owner what he wants_. 

“So,” Lafayette says, in what seems like purposeful ignorance of the oddness of their present circumstance, “To resolve our confusion from the meeting: I would very, very much like you to paddle me. Or spank me, I suppose. I find most are too heavy-handed with the crop, although I do think you might be the type to have just the delicate touch. And I would like you to do it in my hotel room. Do you come equipped with such items?” 

George nods, perhaps against his best interests. 

“Lovely,” Lafayette says, and he folds his fingers into George’s and gives him a little tug forward. “Is that something you would like to do?” 

He consults himself. There is definitely a good amount of yes in his head right now, and with reasonable evidence: Obviously Lafayette is experienced based on his confidence, and he’s young and narrow in the way George likes, and maybe some scene time is just what he needs to move forward from this odd middle-space. On the other hand, he isn’t blind to the business of it: the last thing he needs is trying to explain losing the bid because he did or didn’t spank the billionaire owner like he wanted. But Lafayette obviously wants him, and pretty intently based on this weird chase. Maybe it’s a more dangerous risk to say no entirely. The whole circumstance, that his business and his scene-time have been mixed, doesn’t feel good. But he can’t withdraw, not now. And this is all before the fact that Lafayette is almost too beautiful for him to look straight at, and the thought of him bent over and moaning for George to hit him harder is --- really good, despite his attempts to control himself otherwise. 

“Yes,” he answers, after a moment, “Let's go.” 

“Magnificent,” Lafayette looks very pleased with him, and gives his hand a squeeze, and then lets it go. Then he takes the monogrammed leather bag from the booth, turns the light off, and turns to walk away, with apparent confidence George will follow. George glances over, picks Friedrich out of the crowd, catches his thumbs up, and follows a little too obediently along after gathering his own bag. 

George does know the best hotel in the city, having done a number of presentations and attended a convention or two there, although he’s never stayed in any of the actual rooms, being that he actually lives here. Lafayette opens the back door of a waiting Cadillac at the end of the street and gestures inside. For an unfamiliar second, George had a terrifying thought of wondering if he’s about to be murdered, or something else sufficiently awful, but he’ll be damned if he lets this rich kid intimidate him anymore than he already has. So he gets into the car and puts his seatbelt on, and studies the closed partition between the back and front seat, and carefully hides unfurling anxiety in his stomach. 

“So, what kind of tools do you usually carry for a evening like this?” Lafayette asks, and he reaches into a hidden compartment in the back of the armrest for a little bottle of water, cracking open the plastic top and gulping it down. “Good things, I hope.” 

Not that he would admit such a thing, but it’s not all that easy to process the complete peculiarity of the situation: that the rich heir that owns the company they’re trying to work with has not only picked him out as into all this, and furthermore wanted him for this very reason - and even stranger that he had gotten into a mysterious Cadillac to spank him. 

What was the right answer, then? Everything was - strange. The footing was uncertain and he could say with complete confidence that nothing about it appealed to him. The rules of the club, and his relationships, as they were, were not supposed to be like this. 

He glanced down at his bag. Ropes, mostly. He hadn’t brought many of his best items, only a few things, to cover his bases. But he had a paddle, and a crop, and himself. And he had done very well, with just himself. 

“You’ll find out when I’m ready,” he answered. 

Lafayette pouted, and finished his little water bottle with the sound of crunching plastic. He put the bottle back where he had found it. “Aren’t you going to tell me what you’re going to do to me?” 

No respectable sub would ask a question like that, George thought. Furthermore, Lafayette hadn’t offered him the water first. Maybe Lafayette wasn’t as experienced as George has originally guessed him as. It made the circumstance worse, being that now there was a possibility that he could do the wrong thing, or take the wrong step, or that Lafayette had an idea of what being spanked was like that wasn’t actually anything like it was. It was probably the worst case possibility, and he wasn’t sure how to head it off. He had to stay the course for now, and re-evaluate when he had more space and time to think it over. 

“I’ll tell you when I think it’s a good time,” he said, keeping his voice even. Lafayette frowned. 

“Fine,” he said. 

He needed to test the waters a little more. He glanced out the window, keeping an eye on his surroundings. He swallowed, discarding his uncertainty, and then looked at Lafayette, who was idly flicking through the news on his phone. 

“You shouldn’t speak to me in that tone of voice.” 

Lafayette opened his mouth, perhaps to talk back to him, but then he snapped it shut. His eyes went wide, lips parting. Then he swallowed with some difficulty, closed his mouth again, and looked quickly out his own window. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, to the street. 

A good sign. He weighed his options for a few moments, found the edge again and pushed it just a little more. “Is it the sidewalk you’ve disrespected?” 

There was another long beat of silence. A wormy tendril of fear began to unfold from his chest, wrapping around his heart. That he groped so blindly for the edge worried him on about eight different levels, and one of them being that he pretty sure Lafayette wouldn’t be afraid to drag any personal mistake here into their business dealings. But he had already made a stance on the matter, and he was not the sort of man to make that stance by half. He teetered. 

Finally, Lafayette turned back in his direction and looked up at George through his lashes. If nothing else, it was a very good look for this moment - gorgeous eyes and just the right amount of contrition. 

“Sorry, sir.” 

Bad mix of business and pleasure or not, it still sounded very, very good for Lafayette to be saying those words. 

“I accept your apology,” he said. A better silence settled, and with it George’s stomach, although only most of the way. But if he could get Lafayette to give him a proper apology, and call him the right name, and look at him like that, maybe the situation would work out, after all. They drove for a few more blocks before stopping, and when the car finally turned off George looked out the window and hid his confusion. There was no reason for Lafayette to be a half-block from the hotel entrance, even though they were on the right street. 

The door opened and George stepped outside with his bag, took in the middle of the street and resisted the urge to frown. Maybe he was going to be murdered, after all. And just when he was starting to think he wasn’t in wildly over his head. 

“You need a key to get in, sir,” Lafayette said, appearing in front of him. At least he had added the sir without being told again. He watched as the young man pressed a slim leather wallet to a door that melded into the street, and at the click opened it into a generic waiting room for a small office. 

No reason to back out now, George thought to himself, and stepped inside. Lafayette pressed his wallet again to the elevator panel, which was smooth, and had no buttons at all. The panel beeped and the elevator door opened, and Lafayette gestured to him to step inside. 

The elevator was painfully out-of-place to the lobby, decorated with some kind of dark wood with elaborate designs in the moulding. Lafayette held his key-card a square black card-reader. No buttons here either, George noticed. The elevator began to move, with jump in his stomach that made him think they were going quite fast. 

The elevator opened directly into a beautiful foyer of hotel creams and silk whites. Only a long practice of masking his emotions stopped him from gaping at the overdone richness of all of it. Past the foyer was a living room, and behind that a door which he could only assume lead to a bedroom with a similar arrangement. A step from the foyer and into the living room to pretend he was not nearly struck dumb by all of it - here was a dark leather couch in the corner, and another across from a massive television, and decently-curated art, not to be found at Pier One. 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t known that Lafayette was wealthy, but each further demonstration of it struck deep in him. He’d never been poor, and the hard work he’d always done had paid off for him, but it was unimaginable to think dream of being rich enough to have the secret condo on the top of the hotel. 

Lafayette didn’t comment on his silence, if he thought it unusual. He had sat himself on the leather couch in the back of the living room, slouched forward with his legs spread, as garish as the display of opulence of his hotel room. 

George's thoughts began to percolate again. Was he just another unadmired television or unrecognized bust? The question arrived in his head without meaning to, and now that it was there it was hard for him to not acknowledge it. Here was a man who had clearly gotten everything he had ever wanted and was past the point of actually noticing the things he had. 

And yet George was standing here just as well, next to the half-filled wine rack and the real-wood furniture. He bit back the scowl that he felt, and took a breath to settle the wild thoughts. 

Lafayette looked at him. 

“Make me a drink,” he said, and made his way to the couch across from the television, settling himself on the end of it, putting his bag under his glass coffee table and resting one leg on the other, “Rye if it’s there. Otherwise, any whiskey will do. Neat.” 

Lafayette seemed surprised by the request for a moment before he stood and began to open drawers. It felt a little better now, at least, to see Lafayette doing what George asked him to do. George was not the type to give out undeserved rewards. He was not interested in being some rich boy’s _dom du jour_. 

“Here,” Lafayette said, bringing him a lowball glass half-filled with amber liquid. He narrowed his eyes, and only after a moment did the man add a belated, “Sir.” 

“Pour yourself a drink, if you want," George said, and he took the glass in his hand and stood up in one movement, forcing himself to maintain a slow pace around the luxury hotel suite. There was a full kitchen here too, including a stove, and a selection of generic kitchen utensils: chrome spatulas and tongs and the like. At first George wondered what sort of rich person would be cooking for themselves before it dawned on him: obviously, it would be the personal assistant. If Lafayette had one, he or she wasn't here, at least. George wasn't sure he would have been able to deal with it, if they were..

He took a sip. Rye. Good rye, too, the kind of rye you drank when this was the place that you stayed. If he concentrated, he could hear the uncomfortable, impatient shuffling of a man who was unaccustomed to waiting for things he wanted. But George wasn't good at anything like he was at patience, and if he had to wait Lafayette out for a little while to figure out exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it - he gave the heir 20 minutes at most - he was more than capable. He opened the refrigerator, where a number of items that could be stored at length were ready for some personal chef to use. 

There was, at least, a sense of decent satisfaction when he heard Lafayette clear his throat not five minutes later, and then stand up and walk over to him. George was in the master bedroom now, admiring the oak dresser and the view the window had of downtown. He didn't need to look over. 

"I thought I brought you were to spank me," Lafayette said, with familiar impatience, "If you want to admire views, I bring plenty with me." 

"What exactly am I rewarding you for?" George said to the window, his voice perfectly level. He took another sip of rye. "So far, you have done nothing but be impatient, disrespectful, and rude. I don't see any reason to even look at you, let alone touch you. If what you want is to be spanked, I expect you to earn it." 

He heard the soft sound of feet moving on carpet, and waited a few moments before he looked over his shoulder and saw the man gone. He forced himself to count to twenty in his head before turning and leaving the master bedroom, and then came upon Lafayette, mostly disrobed and displaying himself on the big couch. George was forced to admit that Lafayette was even more beautiful out of his clothes than in them, his whole body layered with muscle, powerful and gorgeous. There was, as much as he hoped there wouldn't be, a definite urge to move the scene forward several notches, where he could have that strong body over his lap and would learn the no-doubt-magnificent curve of his ass. But he was not the kind of man who let someone like this win without strictly adhering to the rules. 

So instead he furrowed his eyebrows, looking up and down the mostly-naked man (for he had put back on his shirt and left it hanging open), keeping the look of deep unimpressedness on his face. 

"Did I tell you to take your clothes off?" he asked. 

"I'm earning it," Lafayette muttered, "Sir." 

"What you are doing is having a tantrum that you're not getting what you don't deserve." 

Lafayette looked up at him, resentful, and didn't retort. He took another sip of rye. 

"Put your clothes back on," he said, gesturing to the pile on the floor, "And sit there and wait, like a good boy, while I look at this doghouse you've decided to stay in." 

The glare was harder now, heavier. George thought about the envelope he was pushing and trying to take a step back, do a little analysis in his head. He suppressed the momentary urge that took him in all the directions at once: he could push harder, ease up, leave, or give the man what he wanted. None of them seemed ideal, with how far he'd gone at this point. But it was not just the scene-arousal that simmered around Lafayette, and George was perfectly aware of the extra consequences of the scene going sour. Lafayette didn't seem like the type to keep his personal grievances from his business life. 

Maybe there was another option, though he wasn't sure exactly how to get to that square from where he was now. He steadied himself in the moment and took another drink, switching tactics. 

"You do want to be good for me though, don't you?" he said, and congratulated himself on making the right choice, because some of the anger smoothed itself from Lafayette's scowl, and the man slowly reached out and started to put his boxers back on. "I bet that you can be very good, and if you were, you know I would give you a very sweet reward that good boys get, when they earn it?" 

Lafayette seemed to consult himself before he nodded. He buttoned his shirt. "I do want to be good," he said, and George declined to punish him for his lacking sirs again. "Well. Mostly I want to be rewarded." 

"Good boys don't have to wait too long, I promise," George said, and sat down in the armchair across from the room. "And it isn't so hard to be good. You've done very good just now, buttoning your shirt. You look beautiful, half-dressed like that. I like looking at you." 

And then George understood what Lafayette was after just as much as being spanked, for his eye fluttered a little bit, and he relaxed into the couch, his back slouching. He gave himself a mental pat on the back in congratulations, feeling his feet under him again. He could take advantage of this; he knew how to step. 

"Thank you, sir," Lafayette murmured. 

"Do you know how else you could be very good for me, my very handsome boy?" 

Lafayette leaned forward. 

"Would you come here and sit at my feet? That would be very lovely and very good of you indeed. I could look at you while you waited." 

Lafayette stood, a little slowly. George again mentally congratulated himself for finding the livewire of Lafayette's desire to be spanked and tapping right into it. He felt the edge and pushed.

"On your hands and knees, so I can see how beautiful you are." 

This time, home run. Lafayette swallowed, and very carefully lowered himself down, as if he was concerned his legs might give out under him. Then he made his way on all fours across the room to the armchair where George was sitting, and sat back on his haunches, looking very expectantly up at him. 

"Good boy," George said, "Very good indeed. You were being so bad, and now you're being much better, and much more likely to be rewarded." He put the glass down on the end table next to the chair and bend to draw his hand down Lafayette's jawline. The skin was warm under his hand, and better because Lafayette's eyes slid shut, and he leaned into the touch. 

"I'm being better now, sir," Lafayette said. 

"You are being very good for me now. If you keep being so good, you'll be rewarded by sitting on my lap." 

He saw the shiver trace through the man and suppressed the smile that he thought. It had only been matter of finding the right way to go about engaging the man that had been the issue. Perhaps he should have asked, but even so the solution seemed to have been discovered without that. He looked down his nose at Lafayette, whose eyes were still closed, and traced a hand over his head, keeping the touch tender and warm. The remaining tension eased out of the other man when George didn’t stop, along with whatever anger that had been accidentally roused. All it took was the right word of praise and the tender touch and the man had gone to putty in his hands. George didn't bother to deny himself that it was a much better sight, with the tails of Lafayette’s shirt hanging over his boxers and his eyes fluttered closed, shoulders loose and lips a fraction open. He really was beautiful, when he wasn’t being such a spoiled brat.

“You won’t be a spoiled brat for me, will you, Lafayette? You’ll be very good for me and I’ll reward you?” he asked, voice soft, as he stroked his fingers down the ridge of Lafayette’s ear. 

“I”ll be very good for you, and I’ll be rewarded,” Lafayette murmured, without opening his eyes. It really was a spectacular picture, one that only reluctantly he thought to dispel. After a few more moments of tender petting, he pulled his hand away and sat back in his chair, then reached back for the end table for his drink. Now, the test. 

Lafayette’s eyes slid half-open at the loss of the touch. His beautiful lips creased into a frown, which also drew wrinkles across his forehead. George took another sip of rye and felt it warm in his stomach, and kept one cool eye on the man in front of him to see. Lafayette did not whine or pout off. Instead, what he did was resettle himself on the ground, and fold his hands neatly across his thighs, and take a deep breath, and close his eyes again, letting his head nod forward. 

George smiled. Full marks, he thought to himself, wondering what Lafayette’s thoughts had been, at that moment. Had he thought to pout like a spoiled brat, and then realized he needed to be good? Had he considered stomping away, or demanding attention, or pushing himself forward? And what had it looked like, for him to decide to sit so calmly? 

This felt better, less likely a rich boy using him as an object and more like him teaching a lovely and ignorant person a little lesson about getting what they wanted. George leaned forward again, and scratched his fingers through Lafayette’s hair, and this time the man made an honest-to-god purr in his throat at the attention. 

“You’re being so much better, you beautiful little thing,” he rumbled. 

“Thank you, sir,” Lafayette said. 

“Refill my drink, gorgeous,” he said, and took another sip or two, until there were only a few more amber drops in the glass. He dangled the glass to the other man’s level and waited, to see if he would pass again. 

He did, and take the glass from George’s hand, and then stand, his legs a little unsteady. George did not deny himself a solid look of the back of him; he had powerful thighs and strong calves and the boxers (silk, George was sure) did not disguise the round of his ass. George’s hand twitched. He wondered how it would feel, a sharp rap along the curve of it. How would Lafayette twitch and moan when he was spanked? 

_All in good time,_ he promised himself, and kept his eyes on the man as he returned. There was not debate that the man was spectacular to look at. 

Lafayette poured him more rye and came back over with the glass. Then, after a moment of obvious uncertainty, he lowered himself back to a kneeling position and offered the glass up to George, who took it and had himself another sip. It was very good rye. Even so, he put the glass to the side and stood slowly from the armchair. He liked how Lafayette watched him, some flickering confusion in his eyes. It was a delicious kind of insecurity - the kind that said _was it something I did? How can I be better? What do you want me to do now that you’ve changed?_

“Let’s go to the couch,” George said, leaving the glass for later. He gestured, taking slow steps across the ridiculous suite. Lafayette, to George’s exquisite pleasure, did not need to be told twice about his hands and knees, and did so even with his head bowed between his shoulders, properly submissive. 

It was the sort of thing that made pleasure trill up his spine. He sat on the couch and put his hands on his thighs; Lafayette leaned again on his haunches. 

“Come here,” George said, and patted his thigh. Lafayette did not need to be told twice, and quite quickly the man had arranged himself very perfectly across the long couch, certainly on purpose settling his groin directly in George’s lap. It was hard to imagine a complaint one might have about having such an amazing ass so accessible. A touch confirmed that the boxers the man wore were definitely silk. 

“I know that we didn’t get off on the right foot,” he continued, memorizing the pert ass presently on display for him and tracing out the shape of it with his fingers, feeling gooseflesh rising under his fingers and the swell of Lafayette’s cock against his lap, “But I think that you do want to be very good for me, and you do want to be rewarded, and you are really quite beautiful. So I suppose that I can forgive you, if you’re apologetic.” 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Lafayette said, immediately, into the couch cushions. 

“Are you?” He asked, and his fingers found the waistline of Lafayette’s boxers pushed them down, exposing the aforementioned ass, which was even more spectacular when completely exposed. 

“Extremely, sir.” 

George pushed the hem of the shirt up, giving himself a perfect space to work. He drew the flat of his palm in slow circles against one cheek, listening to Lafayette’s rattling, expectant breaths.

“How can I be sure?” 

Lafayette made a delicate little noise a bit like a whimper. It was magnificent. “I,” he began, and then swallowed, and started over, “I would do anything to be good for you and show how sorry I am.” 

George pulled back up Lafayette’s boxers, which resulted in a pitiful and delicious wine. “You haven’t apologized very much.” 

“I am very sorry,” Lafayette said, barely after George had finished the sentence, “So sorry. I didn’t mean to be so bad, or so disrespectful, or wrong. I am so, so sorry. I feel terrible, that I upset you, that i was out of line. I just want to be forgiven and I just want to be good.” 

It was difficult to explain how lovely it was to have someone who had previously been so smug and so self-assured draped over his lap and seemingly unable to be profuse enough with his apologies. It whet his appetite to see what else he could get this gorgeous man to say. 

“That is very apologetic,” George said, thoughtfully, and he pulled the boxers down again, drawing just the edges of his nails across the warm skin, “I suppose that I could find in my heart to forgive you, if you truly were sorry. And you do seem very sorry about your terrible behavior previously.” 

He saw Lafayette nod furiously into the couch. 

“But….” To this meandering word he added a few tender strokes of Lafayette’s bare ass, which veritably quivered under his touch. “I don’t know if you still deserve to be rewarded.” 

“I’ve been good.” 

“Have you?” He traced a finger up the visible part of Lafayette’s spine, feeling the notches of it under a good portion of muscle. He let his hand wander over Lafayette’s side, feeling the bottom of his ribs and letting his hand move through the hills and valleys of muscle and bone. “I’m not sure about that. Maybe you could convince me.” 

Finally, Lafayette looked over his shoulder, and George took him in. If he’d thought the man had been gorgeous previously, either in his well-designed makeup and beautiful suit or the tailored polo shirt, this blew both of these out of the water. He wore his magnificent desperation better than either, obvious in his face and a little stress in his shoulders. George wanted every inch of him and completely, at that moment. Even his characteristic patience shook a bit at the bolt of raw want caused by Lafayette’s utterly needy expression. 

“Oh, sir,” Lafayette said, and it was almost a wail with how it sounded, a beautiful thing that reached out and caressed George as affectionately as a lover might, “All I want is to be good for you. I’m nothing without being something for you; I’m nothing, if you don’t say so. I need… I need you. I need to be better. I need to know what you need, what you want. Please let me please you, please let me be good for you.” 

How could he hold back in the face of something so magnificent? Sure, he had more self-control than your average human, and even more than your average top. He'd made a reputation out of patience, and it was a good reputation. Men and women had begged him, and he'd felt nothing. The delay, he always found, was just as sweet (and often more), than whatever the desired reward was. 

And yet to see the rich heir neatly laid out over his lap, bare ass exposed, strong back flexed and his head over his shoulder in a pose that had to be uncomfortable, all so he could just look at George, so he could beg properly, so he could make sure George knew how much he wanted, how good he wanted to be. It tested even him. He could count the times he felt like this - the urge to take, to have, to reward - pushing against his sense like a tidal wave. 

"Oh, that's much better," he said, rather than all the other things that instead rose to his lips, things like _Sweet little thing_ and _Oh, yes, tell me how much you want me, how much you want this._ "It's better when you're more clear about what you want. Otherwise, how could I know?" He stroked Lafayette's bare ass again, then pinched it a bit of it between his fingers, listening to the surprised gasp it evoked. Beautiful. 

"More, please, sir," Lafayette said, relaxing again and putting his head in his hands. The words flowed together, almost slurred. George felt the shiver up his own spine and pinched Lafayette again, liked the sound of the little yelp he made. "I've been---"

George pinched harder, held it longer, didn't even care whatever he'd cut Lafayette from saying. Certainly it couldn't have been sweeter than the little whine Lafayette made when George twisted his fingers. It was too sweet to see Lafayette's thighs go tense, and, if George looked down his wonderful legs, to see his toes clench white against the soles of his feet. 

"You've been what?" He asked, after he let go. There was a spot of red there now, wonderful. 

"Good," Lafayette replied, “So good. Please.” 

An irresistible beg, and George only briefly considered the resistance before a practiced flick of his wrist brought his hand down with a sharp crack across Lafayette’s bare ass. It was a symphony, to listen to Lafayette moan and the sound of his hand. 

“Is that the reward you would like?” He purred, and Lafayette nodded desperately, and all of him seemed to try to move all at once in a different direction to try to get more of it. “You’ve been so good. I didn’t know how good you might be, you know. Even though I wanted you, I didn’t know what you wanted.” 

“I….” Lafayette swallowed, and he made another desperate wiggle, evidently not sure how to express whatever exactly he wanted to say. He gave up, dropping the sentence entirely and knotting his fingers behind the back of his head to hide his face. 

“You don’t need to speak anymore,” George said, and he flicked his wrist again, restraining his delight at the way Lafayette shuddered and groaned at the sound and the pressure. “But. I know how good you want to be for me. And I appreciate that. And now I’m going to reward you. Would you like that?” 

“Yes, sir,” Lafayette said, and restrained half a whimper. 

George was quite experienced in spanking someone half his age. He might have honestly called himself an expert in the thing, and he definitely had preferences for the way people acted and responded to him. He craved, he established after much thought, the feeling of being needed - of a sub grateful for his attention and his touch. It was spectacular to be desired, and desired in this specific way where his every word and every touch was precisely the thing that his partner required. 

To have this man that he had nicely bent to his will, who had learned what he wanted and adapted to it, who requested every touch and forced himself to be obedient for aforementioned touch, who had only very recently pouted like a brat upon not getting what he wanted --- 

\-- and now he was lying very obediently and very quietly across his lap, as George stroked the curve of his bare ass and studied just the smallest bit of visible pink so far, and doing exactly what George wanted him to, and to listen to him desperate for even the tiniest mote of George's attention -- 

George took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. There was something both entertaining and frustrating that a stuck-up heir, in just the right way, made him want to take more ferociously, and more importantly sooner, than he usually did. His partners very quickly understood the kind of man that he was, when they did scenes. A few more breaths and he felt more thoroughly in control. 

Harder to keep that control, though, when he listened to Lafayette's obviously-regulated breathing and watched the half-suppressed shivers that that twitched through his body. He brought his hand down again, this time harder, and Lafayette cried out in familiar pain/joy. George knew the sound very well.

"You can count for me, in French," he said. 

Lafayette gave a quick little nod, and George almost wanted to laugh. Instead, he reached for the pulled-down waistline of the man’s boxers. 

“Yes sir,” Lafayette choked out, too quick, clenching on his lap. 

George took his hand away and smiled. “Very good,” he murmured, and felt the man go slack against him, “You’re being much better for me now.” 

“That’s all I want.” 

“I know.” Another spank, this one harder. “How many do you think I should give you? How good have you been?” He let the pause linger in the air for a moment. “Don’t be greedy. I don’t like greedy boys.” 

“I want as many as you’d like to give me, sir,” Lafayette said, to the couch. 

It was a delightful answer, and so much so that George though a reward of more pinches was in order. “How about twenty?” he asked, his voice low. 

A nod was the response, and then, sharply, “Yes, sir.” 

He brought his hand up, and then down, and watched Lafayette recoil from the force of it. “ _Un_ ,” he said, shuddery. 

George had the most rudimentary grasp of French possible, and even then the trembling way Lafayette uttered each number, deliciously smooth and beautiful between his lips, was absolutely captivating. He had never wanted to take and have so much, never felt such a strong urge to throw a man that he had practically just met down and fuck him. But the temptation - made worse with every stroke, with the growing redness of Lafayette’s ass, with the feeling of the man grinding his cock against his lap - was different with this man than with anyone else he’d done scenes with. 

“ _Dix-sept_ ,” Lafayette said. George felt familiar sting in the palm of his hand and clenched his fist to try and will it away. He was more interested in the low fire of lust in the pit of his stomach, unusually stirred by this delicious sight. But who wouldn’t be, he asked himself. How could you not be taken aback by something so beautiful? Even though he had known that Lafayette was gorgeous, it was even more magnificent than he expected. It was the sound of flesh on flesh, and the man’s half-restrained yelps, and his shudders and twitches. The feeling of the man grinding against him with renewed intensity in between his rewards was remarkable. 

“ _Vingt,_ ” Lafayette nearly sobbed, and George nodded to himself, and gave him a celebratory pat on the thigh, and then stroked the reddened cheeks of his ass. 

“You’ve been very, very good for me, this whole time,” he said, “I am very impressed with your improvement. You’re beautiful and very, very well-behaved.” 

Lafayette was quiet for a long while after that, letting George stroke his back and breathing softly, twitching only a little when George’s fingers found some particularly sensitive spot. It was nice, George thought, just to touch him for a little while, and consider the silence and the powerful back half on display for him. 

“You were as good at this as I expected,” Lafayette said, after a while, in a more composed voice, “So much so that I hardly regret the lack of an orgasm.” 

It was so unexpected that George laughed before he had a chance to feel taken advantage of. “Thank you,” he said, unable to keep the hint of amusement out of his voice, “Let me get you a glass of water and some lotion.” 

Lafayette wiggled towards the end of the couch, leaving George’s lap bare and cold, but also allowing him to get up. He found the mostly-full glass of rye that Lafayette had poured him, as well as acquired a glass of water and the hotel lotion from the bathroom. The first he passed to the other man, who took several solid gulps; the second he poured on his hand and applied liberally to reddened flesh. 

“We’ll see about your orgasm in a little while,” he said. 

Lafayette chuckled and rolled over onto his side, reconfiguring himself on the couch so that his head was in George’s lap once his ass had been lotioned. “I’ll see you again, when I’m back in the country?” 

“I think that can be arranged.” 

He felt better than he thought he should, when Lafayette grinned a satisfied grin at him. “Well,” Lafayette said, and resettled himself again, “I need a nap now. You’re welcome to stay.” 

He could, if he wanted, move himself away from the man that had settled on his thigh. He could leave now, and resume his regular life, and feel much better about it. He did have a few good books to read, and had not yet completed the crossword in the newspaper. But there was something wonderful, smoothed-out and even about Lafayette's face. He looked relaxed, and more so than men usually did when George did scenes with them. And he was beautiful. George smoothed out an awry eyebrow, and Lafayette made a tender, darling noise when he let his hands stroke over the man's hair. 

“I’ve got nowhere to be,” he said. 

***

They settled together in the conference call room, looking nervously at each other. George, having left about maybe ten minutes after Lafayette had woken up from his nap and an hour after falling asleep, was trying very hard to get the delightful mental image of the heir’s spanked, bare ass out of his head. Friedrich’s early morning texts on the matter, a series of eggplants, were also at present unanswered. 

There were routine beeps, and then a throat clearing on the other end of the line. 

“I’m glad to announce that this doesn’t have to take too long,” came Rochambeau’s voice, tinny with distance,”We were all very impressed with your presentation yesterday, and Mr. du Motier especially. We’ve come to the agreement that we think we should move forward on the partnership.” 

“That’s fantastic news, and we're already thinking of the best ways to benefit both of our groups,” George said, in a perfect even voice, in contrast to Henry, who was presently squeezing his meaty fists together and looking like he might explode with joy. 

“I’ve already emailed over some of our plans, and I think there are some obvious immediate strategies we should undertake together. If possible, we’d like for you to get back to that today.” 

“Of course,” George said. 

“One last thing before we let you go, Mr. Washington,” Rochambeau said, and George glanced up, catching Deb’s puzzled eye and watching Knox's frown creep across his face, “We were thinking, although circumstances are the way they are between our organizations, that it would be better to promote yourself as the public lead of the team, rather than me. Not only does it present a better front, but Mr. du Motier made a point to indicate to me this morning he was quite confident you were an excellent leader and capable of great guidance.” 

The confused expressions on his coworkers’ faces turned to astonished joy. George, on the other hand, swallowed back the snort of laughter. 

“That’s a great honor, Mr. Rochambeau,” he said, instead, “I’m sure that our future together will live up to all of Mr. du Motier’s expectations.” 

“See to it, Mr. Washington. Have a good day.” 

The line went dead with a link, after a few more goodbyes. They had a celebratory glass of whiskey, and then George made his way back to his office. 

“Hey,” his assistant said, when he got there, “You got a strange call from a guy. Lafayette. No last name, because he’s Cher, I guess. He gave you his number and said you’d talked but it was private?” 

George shook his head. Discretion was obviously not Lafayette’s strongpoint, but they could work on that. He was, after all, capable of great guidance. Certainly he never turned down the opportunity for a teachable moment. He took the post-it note from Meade’s hand and put it in his pocket. “Yes,” he said, and opened the door to his office, “We’re familiar.”


End file.
